Looking for Trouble by Cath Staincliffe Page B

them for a while, wondering which was Martin’s partner, or pimp. Mind you, if they’d only just arrived it seemed unlikely that Martin was working here. Just a group of friends relaxing? Maybe. Even so, I wanted to approach Martin on his own.
    I found a free high stool at one end of the bar. From there I could watch them easily enough. The conversation mainly involved the three older men. Occasionally Martin joined in, usually in short energetic bursts, waving his arms around a lot and laughing. At one point, the gaunt man leant over and slapped his arms down. It wasn’t a violent act. Just as if he was restraining an unruly child. A little later, the gaunt man leant over and spoke to Martin, passed him a ten pound note. Martin nodded, got up and made his way to the bar. My heart began to putter in my chest. My head thumped in response. People were queuing two-deep at the bar, shouting conversations above the din from the disco. I slipped off my stool and edged along till I was standing next to Martin.
    ‘Martin.’
    He turned to face me, a puzzled look on his face. His eyes were bloodshot. He struggled to focus.
    ‘I’m Sal. J.B, said I might find you here.’
    ‘What d’you want?’ he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder towards his friends.
    ‘To talk. It might be a bit difficult in front of your friends.’
    He was suspicious. ‘What’s it about?’
    ‘It’s a private matter. Get your drinks and I’ll wait for you on the dance floor.’ I moved away before he had the chance to ask any more questions.
    The next ten minutes crawled by as I leant against the wall. The dance floor was bouncing like a trampoline as the bodies leapt and flailed in the harsh, flashing lights. At last, I saw him come through the narrow passageway that led from the main bar.
    He was none too steady on his feet. His clothes were casual, well made. Slacks and sweat shirt.
    ‘What’s all this about?’
    ‘I’m a private detective...’
    We had to lean close and shout above the music, to be heard.
    ‘Shit.’ He glanced back towards the bar. He was about to bolt.
    ‘Wait – just hear me out. Your mother asked me to find you; she was worried sick. When you left, she...’
    ‘What?’ Incredulity distorted his elfin features.
    ‘She wants to know if you’re alright.’
    ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell.’ He grimaced. ‘Tell her to go frig herself.’
    My mouth dropped open. ‘Martin, she cares about you. She’s desperate.’
    He began to giggle. Stopped abruptly and rounded on me. ‘He put her up to it. The bastard.’ He rubbed his eyes.
    A steady stream of people pushed past us, coming to and from the dance floor, fracturing the conversation.
    ‘Your father?’
    He nodded.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I told her I’d try and find out where you were. She just wants to know if you’re alright.’
    ‘She never fucking cared before.’ His eyes glared with hatred. Was this the shy, withdrawn boy people had told me about? ‘I got to go.’ Martin wheeled away, lost his balance and slid to the floor.
    ‘Martin.’ I helped him up. He was shaking. ‘What do you mean, she never cared before?’
    ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he shouted. ‘She knows why I went.’
    ‘I’m asking you.’
    ‘I gotta go.’ He pulled away from me.
    ‘Wait.’ I grabbed the back of his shirt. His arms went up around his head for protection. Astonished, I let go. He was crying. I steered Martin ahead of me and into the Ladies, which was tucked in the corner, between the main bar and the disco. I hoped we wouldn’t be disturbed.
    In the strip light he looked yellow; cracked lips, a bruise on his forehead. I propped him up against the pink tiled wall. Leant against the basin myself. I saw another large bruise on his neck, yellow and purple. Or was it a lovebite?
    ‘What happened, Martin?’
    He rolled his head from side to side. ‘Bastard.’
    ‘Your father?’
    ‘Bastard.’
    ‘What did he do?’
    He covered his face with his hands.